


L'amour Après

by karmascars



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Begging, Dirty Talk, M/M, Oral Sex, PWP, Rimming, bottom!Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-26
Updated: 2014-09-26
Packaged: 2018-02-18 19:29:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2359619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/karmascars/pseuds/karmascars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>PWP. Post-hunt porny coda. (It's not written in French.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	L'amour Après

They're both freshly showered, not a trace of blood or gore remains, but Sam still feels so dirty.

He slots in on the bed beside Dean, running a hand roughly up his brother's chest, narrowly missing a nipple with a splayed finger and savoring the hiss of indrawn breath.

"Tell me to stop," he murmurs, tracing the line of Dean's clavicle, the taut tendons in Dean's throat.

Dean swallows and skin ripples against Sam's touch. "You know I won't," he whispers in reply, barely any sound. He's so strung out with need. They've both been riding the razor's edge of wanting ever since they slaughtered that thing hours ago and looked up, eyes meeting over the corpse. Finding one another still alive.

It's always such a relief, a wash of heat from green to hazel and back again that leaves them both gasping for air, desperate to tumble back into their room du jour and the grasping catch of each other's arms.

Sam skates his hand down the lines of Dean's body, rests it lightly on the bulge in Dean's shorts.

"You want this?" he asks. He knows, but he always has to make sure.

"Damn it, Sam," Dean snaps, hoarse. His hips roll up and he grits his teeth. "Just -- just touch me," he growls, and before he's done Sam is pressing the heel of his hand onto that eager flesh.

The way Dean arches beneath him; oh, yes. Sam would have to be a much more disciplined man indeed to keep his lips from his brother's skin after seeing that.

He sucks kisses in a line up one defined pec, licking a swath around the pebbled nipple. Dean gasps, and Sam hums his approval into Dean's skin. He sinks his teeth into Dean, just to hear that little sound again. His hand works in steady, rocking presses, and Dean rocks right back against him, moaning.

"Sammy..."

Sam loves to hear his name leave Dean's lips like it's the filthiest thing that Dean loves the best.

"Yeah, I got you," he breathes in reply, trailing each humid word down Dean's side. He nips at the sharp jut of a hip he reveals when he slides Dean's shorts away. Then Sam tilts his head, and regards his brother's cock, flushed and leaking against Dean's belly.

There are cocks and then there are works of art, and Sam would place Dean's with the latter; full and red, so wet for him, begging all on its own for Sam's mouth. Never mind the way actual pleas are falling from Dean's lips, curses and _please_ and _go on, Sammy, suck me, c'mon --_

"Yeah," Sam breathes over the fat head, not even a word, just a tease before he closes his mouth over salty skin and _sucks_.

Dean bucks right up off the bed. "Fuck, Sam!" he cries, fingers clenched in the sheets. "God, _yes_ , fuck...ing hell, you're so," he gasps, one hand finding Sam's hair, "you're so good, Sammy, _oh_ ," and Sam smiles around his mouthful, lips and jaw and tongue working, lick and suck and swirl, " _fuck_ , Sammy, Sam, god _damn_ you're good ," and on it goes. Dean is most vocal when Sam can't say a word.

And Sam is just fine not speaking. He's got his own language that he paints into Dean's flesh with his tongue and throat, taking Dean's cock as far into himself as he can manage, holding off breathing as long as he can. It's worth it for the strangled noises Dean makes, and the way Dean's strong fingers latch and clutch in Sam's hair. Each sound, each tug runs a swift line straight to Sam's cock. He's sucking in earnest, humping the bed in time, needing the friction to match the burn in his throat when he takes Dean deeper than maybe he should. He likes the feel of being full. He loves the way Dean tastes, every inch of him. It turns Sam on like nothing else, the taste of Dean and the heavy feel of Dean on his tongue. 

Sam is so damn hard he might even finish before his brother, especially if Dean keeps making those sounds. 

Then Dean grabs at his shoulders, hauls him up with a curse. "Fuck me," he gasps, "Sammy, god, just fuck me --"

And Sam is more than fine with that, shoving Dean's legs up and out of the way, running a fingertip over Dean's furled little hole and drinking in his shiver. "Yeah, you want it?" he's purring, not paying attention, just running his mouth. "You want my cock in this tight little hole? Want me to fuck you so you feel it next week, so you can't walk for days, Dean, hm?"

"Yes," Dean pants, shameless the way no one else gets to see him, hips canting to meet Sam's teasing finger. "Yeah, please, want that, want you," and Sam gives him that finger up to the knuckle, just to hear how pretty Dean can moan.

Drag and catch, too dry, but Sam can't look away from Dean's rim clutching around the base of his finger. He leans in and licks around it, smirking when Dean makes a sound like he's been punched. He does it again, swirling, wet, digging the tip of his tongue in around his finger, and Dean goes fucking crazy above him, legs clamping down on Sam's shoulders. Seems like Dean can't even find words anymore. And he's so _tight_.

Sam plays a little bit longer before he pulls out, ignoring his brother's curse, and goes in search of lube. He's got to get his dick in that, like, yesterday.

He slicks up two fingers standing there beside the bed, staring down at Dean all splayed out and wanton, flush and freckles and taut, pale skin. Dean bites his lip under the scrutiny. "You gonna fuck me sometime today, or...?"

"Nah," Sam teases, "I'm just here for the show."

Dean mutters darkly, "I'll give you a show," but Sam is kneeling between his legs. The furrow of Dean's brow smooths out on his shout when Sam slides two fingers inside him and skates the tips right over his prostate, dead on.

He lets out a throaty whine as Sam adds another finger, tossing his head side to side, eyelids fluttering. "Just fuck me," he says, a record on repeat, "just fuck me," but Sam is scissoring his fingers open, having too much fun with the way Dean reacts to his every move. So sensitive; it's been three days since they've had this last, and Dean is almost virgin-tight.

"Have you touched yourself?" Sam murmurs, corkscrewing his fingers in and out. "Maybe you got a little hot in the shower --"

"Y'know damn well I haven't!" Dean shouts. "Now get in there or I'll find someone who will." It's made less of a threat by the tremor in his voice.

Sam lines up, holding his fingers deep inside until his dick is right there, just to the side, tip teasing Dean's cheek, painting the pale skin wet. He draws his fingers out, slowly, nudging himself closer in.

He doesn't miss the hitch in Dean's breath, or the way it speeds in anticipation.

"Oh," he says with a smile, "you mean like," thrust in _deep_ , "this?" enough to punch the air from Dean's lungs. His ragged inhale is a sob,

" _Sam_ ," like he's been shot.

Sam pulls out til the rim is clutching at the head of his cock, and thrusts in hard again. Dean wails, thrashing, biting his lip white and bloodless. Every panting breath has a shape to it, a keen, Dean trying to express how he's feeling when he's too mindless to speak. There's no room for words anymore, just Sam slamming in and sliding out, picking up speed, Dean working his hips in time. Sam smacks Dean's thigh and digs in with his nails, changing the angle even as Dean is torquing down to meet him, fast and rough.

"Fuck!" Dean bites out, harsh, eyes glassy. He's clearly seeing stars. Sam would smirk, but Dean is just so tight, so hot around him. He's losing it fast, he won't last long. Sam bows his head over Dean's gorgeous, sweat-shimmer form and lets loose, pounding in as hard as he can, hips snapping, slap of skin on skin and the gorgeous noises he drives out of Dean when he does.

They wind up tighter, tightest, taut like the string of a bow --

And then Dean is coming, not a hand on him, cock thickening and pulsing between their bellies, hot and slick. His every muscle contracts, spasms against the bed and around Sam, and Sam is done -- thrust, one, two and he's following suit, plunging in deep and practically vibrating out into white and nothingness as he shakes, and Dean shakes, and relaxes.

They come down from the high together. Sam slips from his brother's body with a sigh.

"Other bed?" Dean grunts, sounding hopeful. "Don't wanna sleep in the wet spot."

Sam makes some kind of noise in the affirmative, and they roll and stumble their way across the space.

They're both sweating, still trying to catch their breath, but that doesn't stop Sam from gathering Dean against him and nuzzling into his neck.

Dean puts up a token protest, "Dude, gross," but he doesn't push Sam away. He knows. The same drive for closeness, to know they're alive exists before, during, and after.

 

 

 

_*fin_

**Author's Note:**

> Title translates to "the love after".


End file.
